The Last of the Real Ones
by RaisedOnRadio
Summary: Being determined to expose them all as frauds might mean losing a piece of himself along the way. [short story, complete]
1. Chapter 1

(This one has been in the works for a while! You may have seen me tease it on my Tumblr under the WIP title, _Silver Spoon_.)

...

The woman swept into the lab—which was nothing more than a small room with a table and four chairs—with the grandiose presence Oliver had learned to expect with her kind. He made a note on his clipboard.

She didn't pay him any notice, turning her attention to Sir Dorey, and why would she? Oliver was a just-turned-twelve-years-old boy whose feet dangled above the floor as he perched on his chair. His twin Eugene was hoping they would be going through a growth spurt soon. Oliver had told him not to expect much, their growth might be stunted from their less than ideal upbringing before the age of seven.

The women's blonde hair was pulled up away from her face except for a few loose tendrils. His adopted mother Luella had told him to achieve that carefree look took a long time, which was why she didn't bother with it. Oliver didn't understand how that worked, but then, he just wasn't interested in fashion, period. He did notice clients were more likely to trust young boys who dressed well, so he borrowed from Eugene's closet when he wanted to make a good impression.

The woman gushed to Sir Dorey about being invited again. The last results had gone so well, had they not?

They had not, according to files Oliver had read through. But apparently, most psychics believed "inconclusive" meant something else.

Sir Dorey motioned Oliver over. Oliver slid down off the chair as gracefully as possible.

"This is my assistant, Oliver Davis," Sir Dorey said. "Oliver, this is Lady Maxine."

Oliver offered his hand, but she ignored or simply did not notice the gesture.

"He's so cute," she said, placing her hands on her thighs and leaning down. "How old are you?"

Up close, Oliver could see makeup was heavy on her face. He could not tell if she was trying to cover up her age or trying to make herself look older. He crossed his arms and leaned back.

"You are asking my age? Are you not capable of discerning that yourself?"

The makeup settled into the creases as she frowned. Certainly wasn't covering up youth, Oliver decided.

"You're twelve," Maxine said firmly.

"Yes, that is correct," Oliver said, "but the moment's pause gave you enough time to pick the thought from my mind, which of course would have rose to the top due to your question. So you clearly have some telepathy skills. But that is not the same as being a medium."

She straightened up, and her lips thinned into a straight line as well. Her height was her only advantage at the moment.

"You sure know how to pick charmers, Dorey."

Dorey made a sound between a nervous cough and laugh. "Well, he is the future. The younger generation is not nearly as trusting."

"Wonderful," she said.

Oliver always found it interesting how easy it was to catch a so-called medium off guard. The assured confidence she had walked in with was gone.

"Would you mind if we started the interview?" Oliver asked her as he steadied the video camera set up by the table.

She looked down at him, the slightest curl to her lip. She glanced over at Sir Dorey, who nodded. Only then she took the offered chair.

Oliver pressed record on the video camera, and sat down across from her with his clipboard.

"When do you feel your medium skills surfaced?" he asked.

"I was young, under ten. I started going into trances," Maxine said. "I would not recall what had happened but the people around me said my voice changed and I told them things I could not have possibly known."

"Do you believe there is only one spirit you channel?" Oliver asked. "Or are there many?"

"There is only one," she said. "He was a man during 3000 B.C. in Egypt."

"And will we meet him today?"

"That is the plan." Her smile had returned.

"Do you require any special setting?" Sir Dorey asked, "Darkened room, etcetera?"

Maxine shook her head. "I'll just relax my mental state and let him take over. Then you can ask your questions."

"We appreciate these details, but we are actually here to study you," Oliver said. "Do you ever have problems summoning the spirit?"

"No," Maxine said slowly. Her fingers tapped on the table as she drew out the word. The hesitation was intended to come off as cocky, but instead it sounded unsure.

"There was never a time that you had to fake being controlled by the spirit?"

"Are you questioning my integrity?" Maxine said, her voice sharp.

"That is exactly what I am doing," Oliver said. "Maybe you're not aware that is what you came here for. I'm not interested in one of your shows. My parents have attended a few of them and their feedback was not in your favor."

"Sir Dorey," Maxine said, turning to him. "You have had me visit before. It was documented, correct?"

Sir Dorey nodded, his eyes on Oliver more so than Maxine.

"It was," Oliver said. "I've reviewed the data and found many flaws in the way it was conducted. Sir Dorey has approved the changes in how we are handling psychic interviews now. If you have any objections, you are welcome to leave now."

Her eyes widened and Oliver could see the vulnerability in them. Somehow, she was not used to being doubted. It was his whole goal to get the SPR to stop conducting these petty interviews and get out into the field. But he was only twelve-years-old and they seemed a little frightened by that fact. He assumed that once there were no more false psychics to test, they would be able to move onto better endeavors.

"First," Oliver said, "I will have you go over the cards with me. We want to establish your telepathy skills."

"But if I do poorly in your tests, that does not mean I am lying," Maxine said. "It just shows that psychic abilities cannot be documented in a controlled environment."

She held eye contact with Oliver for too long, but she ended up being the one who looked away.

"I'm not sure what you are trying to say," Oliver said mildly. "If your skills are real, shouldn't you be able to replicate the results from your last test?"

Maxine caught his eye again. She knew she was being taunted. She definitely had solid enough skills in telepathy.

"But if I fail your new testing style, you will publish the results and it will look poorly on me," she said. "I can't afford that. I need this job."

"Even if it means deceiving people?"

"Unbelievable." Maxine glared at him and turned to Sir Dorey. "This is the boy I've been hearing about? The miracle medium?"

Sir Dorey shook his head. "No, that's his twin." He had mainly kept quiet during the exchange. There was no disappointment directed at Oliver, however. The concerned expression and musing hand on his chin was directed only at Maxine.

Oliver felt a small rise of triumph. Dorey was starting to understand what type of con artists have come into the lab. The real ones understood they couldn't prove anything in this type of setting. They didn't flock to this type of attention. They were too busy actually practicing their profession.

She addressed Oliver again. "I don't care for critics, they don't understand the pressures of the profession. My spirit and I have helped a lot of people communicate with their lost ones. Those people may have never been able to move on without our help. If you don't believe, then why are you even here?"

"Well," Oliver said, "That is where you are wrong again. I do believe. In the real ones. And they do exist. I know one personally. And shams like you hurt the profession, hurt their credibility."

"So your brother, the medium, is he able to produce results in a laboratory setting?" Her smile was cemented in place to keep from slipping.

"No, he isn't," Oliver said. "Because he isn't claiming to have a pet spirit he carries around with him. He is not a trance medium. He only communicates with the dead, and they do not visit the laboratory for our convenience."

"I'm not a sham," Maxine said.

"Then prove it."

Her chair tipped over with a clatter as she stood up too quickly. The facade of heavy makeup and forced smile had cracked.

"I…" Maxine swallowed. "Thank you for this opportunity, but I will not be continuing with the tests today."

"Of course," Oliver said. "I understand."

He snapped the notebook shut. Dorey got up and quietly clicked the video camera off.


	2. Chapter 2

The sky was dark, but the stars were outshone by the strands of twinkling lights strung across the booths of one of the first funfairs of the season. The sound of the calliope music could be heard but it was on the other side of the festival, far enough from Oliver to be a dull drone.

It had been an unusually hot afternoon which had faded into a muggy evening. Oliver felt like he just couldn't breathe right, as if his lungs had to filter out the moisture before he could receive the benefit of the oxygen.

Oliver felt a spike of amusement twisted with irritation through his twin's link.

_Noll, you're only twelve,_ Eugene said. Though he was some distance away, the words came to Oliver as if they were whispered into his ear. _You're too young for your thoughts to be so scientific._

It was like Oliver had accidentally spoken out loud, and he didn't know what he had actually said. He had to go over in his head what thoughts Eugene had picked up on. It was the oxygen remark, Oliver remembered. He found himself shaking his head. It wasn't even worth a reply. Eugene was the type to act like he didn't care so that everyone was pleasantly surprised when he actually passed his classes.

_It's a good thing I have you to always remind me of our age,_ Oliver said. _I'd hate to end up thinking you are younger than you actually are._

Maybe it was a good thing. Eugene did manage to ground him. Otherwise, he might end up believing he was much older.

Oliver allowed his brother's thoughts to become far away, and then ended up closing their door. Eugene was interested in the rides of the fair. Oliver, simply, was not.

The festival was popular and thus, crowded, it took a lot of willpower to not constantly bump into people. If he was Eugene, he would shove the people while simultaneously saying excuse me. Not that most people would feel the shove, though. Eugene would say it was the thought that counts.

Oliver was interested in the stalls where the lights became more distantly spaced, where the crowds were dispersed, and only a few couples strolled along the walkways, hand in hand. To cover for his twin's disappearance, Oliver would owe Eugene at a later date.

He really was just a child, and he shouldn't be here alone. No place was ever truly safe. But he was Oliver Davis, and he was not afraid. He was capable of self defense. So what if he had been tired lately after practicing his PK? He could not get stronger if he did not use it, so he was pushing himself of his own accord.

When he walked far enough out, the stalls started to become little tents, or small empty spaces only protected by swathes of cloth hung overhead. Eventually oil lamps replaced the electric lights. He passed by many of the dimly lit spaces without a second glance. He knew the people within, and they knew him, for they were silent as he walked by instead of calling out their abilities. Since he had officially started working for the SPR, he had interviewed many self-styled psychics of the traveling fairs.

Oliver called them all fortunetellers, but most of the ones he talked to preferred more elegant titles: seer, spiritualist, psychic, soothsayer, and so on. Sir Dorey still held onto the notion of finding someone worthy of bringing into the lab. Oliver had yet to find one. Word had gone around about the small, inquisitive, and exasperating boy who called himself a parapsychologist. If he actually was, it meant he would not be spending any money with them today. For some reason, this made them unresponsive to Oliver's questions.

Oliver stopped in front of a stall he did not recognize. There was no reason to pick this one out—it looked the same as the rest with a little hand stenciled sign: _Fortunes Told_.

It was the intuition he relied on. This stall felt new and different.

He leaned in and let his eyes adjust. A small table, covered with a maroon cloth, was in the middle. Three people sat at it, one separated out, the other two close together. The lone person was, to Oliver's surprise, male. So many of the traveling fortunetellers seemed to be women of all ages.

The fortuneteller held onto a hand of a girl who looked barely out of her teens. The boy who sat next to her watched with impatient intent. The chair creaked when he shifted.

The fortune teller wore a loose shirt the same color as the table cloth. The candle on the table was so low it was in danger of going out with a single errant breath. The waning candle caused more shadows than highlights, and though Oliver had been silent he had the sensation that the fortuneteller looked straight at him.

"You'll need to wait your turn," the fortuneteller said. Oliver nodded and pulled back, hovering right around the makeshift doorway. The best research Oliver had acquired was when he was able to attend a session without being directly involved. They seemed to put on less airs if they did not think they had to entertain a researcher.

So it was to Oliver's frustration when he could not hear anything. The fortuneteller's voice was barely a murmur. Oliver could have been listening to a foreign language for the amount of words he could not understand.

Eventually chairs scraped and thank yous were spoken. Oliver thought he heard the clink of coins as they hit a tray but he knew that was not possible. Only paper bills would be passing hands in this day and age.

The patrons left the stall, in hushed but excited voices exchanged for each other's ears only. A brighter light appeared in the tent, and at the same time a strong hand caught Oliver's shoulder. He gasped as he was pulled into the main area of the stall. The light was a small battery operated lantern, which still did not light the space past the edges of the table.

"Sit," the fortuneteller said. Oliver remained standing, and folded his arms. He didn't need to be shorter than he already was. The man's face seemed young, but then, Oliver had never been good at ages.

So instead the fortuneteller sat across from him, leaning back and putting his feet on the edge of the table. It did not collapse from the weight as Oliver had expected. He wore leather boots that were cracked and worn.

"I've heard of you," the man said. His voice, Oliver realized, held no discernible accent. "I'm assuming you don't want your fortune read."

"Heard of me from where?"

"The other magickers, of course," the man said, waving his hand in dismissal. His skin was a golden bronze. "So what do you want to know?"

Oliver pulled out his pocket notebook and pen. His pale hands almost matched the white glow of the paper in the unnatural lamplight. He didn't like a subject who already had expectations of the interview, but he would have to make do. "How long have you believed you have psychic powers?"

"Since my brother attempted to drown me."

Oliver's pen did not pause as he wrote out the answer. Fairy tale answers made useless research. "How long ago was that?"

"Twenty years ago."

The man could have been a baby at the time, or he could have been five. He could have even been ten. Oliver did not ask. He would not give the man any satisfaction of knowing that Oliver could not do anything with these answers except to make Sir Dorey laugh.

The man took his feet off the table and moved closer. The sound forced Oliver to look up and see the man's face, now out of the shadows. His dark glossy hair hit his shoulders, and kohl was smeared around his eyes.

"How old are you?" the man asked with a smile. His white teeth and a partially hidden earring glinted in the light.

"I'm the researcher here," Oliver said firmly.

"Oh yes, of course," the man said. Oliver disliked the laughter in his voice. "What other questions can I answer for you?"

"What name should I put down on my research notes for you?"

"Josiah is fine."

"How long have you been peddling your skills for money?"

Normally that question got a rise out of a fortuneteller, but Josiah simply said, "A long while."

Oliver closed his notebook with a derisive snap. "Thank you sir, you've been very helpful. I'll not take up any more of your time."

This time Josiah truly laughed. "I'm sorry. I haven't helped you at all. Please do not blame me if I am distrustful of researchers, no matter their age."

Oliver gave one nod. Before he could formulate an answer, another couple showed up in the doorway.

"Come, sit," Josiah said as he stood up and ushered them in. "Do you mind if the boy stands in the corner? He is studying me."

The couple said they did not mind, and they sat across from Josiah.

"What are you looking to learn about today?" Josiah asked them. "Prosperity, Marriage, Children?"

They looked at each other, contented expressions on their faces. "Future of our family," the woman said.

Josiah said, "Please give me your hand."

The woman volunteered hers, and Oliver watched Josiah pour over it. The lantern was still on the table, and it somehow gave an eerie feeling. As if the candle had belonged, but this piece of technology did not. It caused the old world and new to crash together.

"You are married," Josiah asked.

"Yes," her husband confirmed.

What a leading statement, Oliver thought. The wedding ring on her opposite hand was obvious. She had unconsciously brought attention to it more than once.

"Your hand shows you'll have three children," Josiah said.

The woman smiled brightly. "That's exactly what we want. Can you tell me how soon?"

"You should wait a short while," Josiah said. "Don't be afraid to get all your affairs in order, so you can devote all the time necessary to the baby."

She nodded, her face serious. Her husband, Oliver noticed, suddenly looked irritated.

"Don't wait if you don't want to," he said to his wife.

She frowned at him. "No, he's right. If I finish the degree first, I'll be better off."

"But you won't use the degree anyway when you have a baby."

Her lips parted and she pulled her hand away as she turned to her husband. She opened her mouth to speak, and seemed to decide against it. She instead went to her purse and pulled out a wad of bills, handing them to Josiah in the same swift movement as she stood up and walked out.

Her husband sent Josiah a glare but followed her without a word.

Oliver had written their dialogue down so quickly that he hoped he could actually read his scrawl later. He took the seat that the woman had vacated, intrigued despite his original misgivings. Josiah was looking down at his hands. They were long and fine boned, and Oliver would not have thought they had much strength except for the vise grip he had felt on his shoulder earlier.

"Is your main art palmistry?" Oliver asked.

"I guess," Josiah said without looking up.

"They seemed displeased with their reading compared to the last couple," Oliver said, trying to draw him back into conversation.

"That's because I had told the last couple just what they wanted to hear," Josiah said, meeting Oliver's eyes. "This woman, I told her what I actually saw."

"You saw on her hand that she should wait for children?"

"No, I picked that up from her mind," Josiah said, as he tapped his temple for emphasis. "Her hand said she would have three children, but there were two marriage lines. I don't think the children will come from the man who had been sitting next to her, but that is still something you don't say when you have an angry spouse sitting across from you. I simply let her answer her own worries out loud."

Oliver paused in his writing. "So you lied for the last couple? Told them they would be happy until the day they die?"

"Yes," Josiah said.

"Would they be?"

"It could happen. The lines on hands do change."

"But as a psychic, doesn't that disturb you?" Oliver asked. "The lies are what give your profession the bad name."

"Sure, if you didn't have to worry if the husband was going to be outside your tent later, ready to settle this issue with fists or a knife," Josiah said. "Or when you have people get up and leave without payment because they didn't like what they heard, and it leaves you with the choice of eating, or using the money to buy a booth space at the next festival." Josiah leaned close to Oliver, who resisted the urge to flinch away. There was a light colored scar on the older man's jaw. It looked like it continued down onto his neck. "Maybe we haven't all been living with silver spoons in our mouths, eh?"

"I wasn't born with a silver spoon," Oliver said quietly.

"Did I say you were?" Josiah said. "I said you were now living with silver spoons. I know your history, Oliver Davis. Don't use your dark past only when it's useful to get what you want. Make sure you admit that your life just isn't that bad now."

Oliver's face hardened when at the same time a chill caressed his spine.

"You've stopped writing this all down," Josiah added. "Has it become too personal? It's all good research. Make sure to include, 'all street psychics lie because people can't handle the truth, not even the researchers.'"

They were still too close, but neither moved away.

Oliver finally said, "Did you do that reading honestly only because I was here?"

"No," Josiah said. "I did it honestly because she deserved it. Because when you're a psychic it comes to a point where it doesn't matter what people think or how much it could hurt you. You will know when to use your gift to help them, no matter the cost to yourself, because that is who you are." With a clatter of his chair, Josiah stood abruptly. "I hope, one day, you'll experience that."

Oliver had stood up at the same time. He clutched his little notebook to his breast as protection against the barbed words Josiah had thrown at him. But it did not help, because it felt like the points had embedded themselves around his heart.

"I'm only a researcher," Oliver said. The lie was suspended in the humid air. Josiah did not reply, and instead turned away.

"Good bye," Oliver said as he backed out of the tent. The air outside had cooled considerably. It took everything in his being not to run. He was not frightened by that man. He had dealt with many angry psychics since he had started helping Sir Dorey. This man was no different.

So he did not run, but he did hurry. He brushed by a few people in his haste, and felt emotions and saw images that were not his.

When he arrived back to the main area of the funfair, he was not bombarded by any of his relatives or fair workers, so he had not been reported missing. Eugene must have done his job well.

The festival lights and sounds jarred Oliver. To crawl into a dark corner and cover his ears seemed like a viable option at the moment.

A hand on his shoulder almost made him cry out.

"Whoa," Eugene said, recoiling his hand, "You all right?"

"Yes."

"You don't look all right." Eugene peered into his eyes. "Did something happen?"

"Not really," Oliver said. "I found a new fortuneteller, but he wasn't cooperative."

"Do you want me to go and make him cooperate?" Eugene said, a smile playing on his lips.

"No," Oliver said.

Eugene's smile slipped and his eyes narrowed. "What in the world could he have done to frighten you?"

"I'm not frightened," Oliver said. He rolled his shoulders, aware of his stiff posture and tight face.

"Can I read your report?"

With a sigh, Oliver handed over the notebook. Eugene took it to a bench that was unoccupied. When Oliver sat as well he left a space large enough for another person between them. Eugene looked at the space for a moment but didn't bother to reprimand his brother.

Eugene eventually said, "It looks normal enough. What actually happened?"

Oliver handed him the pen first, then described the rest of the encounter. Eugene diligently wrote it down.

"Had you given your name to any of the other fortunetellers?" Eugene asked. He chewed on the tip of the pen, and seemed unaware he was doing so.

"I'd have to check my research notes," Oliver said.

"You might have," Eugene said. "If someone asked for credentials or something." Oliver noticed that his brother's voice did not sound confident with this theory, though.

"It was just telepathy," Oliver said.

Eugene looked askance at his twin. "More than half of the time I can't get into your head, and you're telling me some stranger just lifted your name and life history in a moment?"

Oliver had to admit there might be a few flaws in his theory. "So he was skilled, but probably not even worth bringing into the lab."

"If he would even come," Eugene said with a sigh. "Why is it that the people who could prove their abilities don't want to?"

Because they have something to lose, Oliver thought. He found he was studying the lines on his hands. He made fists and forced himself to look up, and found Martin and Luella approaching.

_Put it away,_ he told Eugene mentally. Luella had not been happy when she found out that Oliver was interviewing the local psychics on his own. He had told her he would stop.

"Are you boys already done?" Martin asked.

"Yeah," Eugene said. "I finally convinced Oliver to go on one of those spinning rides, and now he doesn't feel well."

Oliver nodded. It was not really a lie, after all. Oliver's hair was stuck to the back of his neck and his stomach kept doing flips.

He stood up, and fell.


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver could hear the doctor talking softly with his parents. Something about not finding anything wrong. The boy just seemed…weak? Maybe it was anemia? He seemed to be stabilizing. Did you want some extra tests anyway?

He opened his eyes when he felt Eugene shift next to him. The sight that greeted him was a stark white ceiling. Oliver felt he was going to fade right into the walls and sheets. No one would notice if this small pale patient just disappeared, would they?

Eugene was sitting on the bed by his side, a sentinel who seemed far larger than his diminutive size. Arms crossed, back straight. The doctors probably had a hard time going through him.

_What happened? _Oliver asked through their link. It still sounded like a whisper to him.

_You fainted, _Eugene replied. _Martin just caught you before you hit the ground. _There was a pause, then he added, _I had to admit up you hadn't been on any of the rides._

Oliver grimaced. He had a reprimand to look forward to when he got out of the hospital.

A nurse came over and checked his vitals under Eugene's distrustful stare. She just looked like she was going through the motions. Her expression said,_ there isn't anything wrong with this one. Must be faking it. _Was he reading into it, or was it really her thoughts?

Oliver closed his eyes again, feeling a rush in his stomach. Someone had died in this bed last week. He could feel the lingering memory beneath him.

_I want to go home,_ he told Eugene.

_I know._

Nobody else asked Oliver's opinion. They made him stay overnight.


	4. Chapter 4

Oliver had won, hadn't he? There were no more psychics to interview. Sir Dorey had given him permission to collect data on phenomena in the field.

So why was his body rebelling against his plans? He had a schedule to adhere to. If he didn't get out of bed now, he wouldn't have any free time before school.

A soft groan escaped as he rolled over out of bed. His whole body ached. He searched his memories of the few days prior if he had done something so physically taxing to feel this way. Any sport events at school? Or something Eugene had conned him into?

Nothing.

He looked at his forlorn expression in the mirror, brushing back the hair from his sunken eyes. Luella would ask if he had stayed up late again. If he told her the truth—that he normally went to bed hours before Eugene—she would probably whisk him back to the hospital again.

His bedroom door opened, and since there was only one person in the household who wouldn't knock beforehand, he made sure his inner door was locked tight.

Eugene looked at the bed first, then at his twin at the dresser who was hastily assembling an outfit from the drawer.

"Luella said you hadn't come down yet, and I almost didn't believe her," Eugene said. "Did you sleep in or something?"

"Yeah."

Eugene waited for an explanation, and frowned slightly when he didn't get one. "Luella isn't going to believe that. She'll think we switched places again."

"I can't fix that," Oliver said. He had worked with the police on a missing persons report yesterday. Was that why he was tired?

"Earth to Noll?"

Oliver jumped when he realized Eugene was right in front of him, and had clearly spoken.

Eugene took Oliver's arm to steady him. Oliver hadn't realized he was swaying.

"Your skin is hot," Eugene said. "Are you sick?"

"Maybe," Oliver said. He did feel flushed, though the mirror had only showed pale skin.

The floorboards rippled, shaking items off of his desk and dresser. Oliver was knocked forward into his twin, whose eyes had gone wide. Eugene's mouth was moving, but Oliver couldn't hear the words—so Eugene just grabbed his wrist and dragged him under the desk.

Everything stopped moving at once. The pens laying next to Oliver's knee told him he hadn't hallucinated it.

"What the hell?" Eugene finally said.

There was a knock on Oliver's door—which was for politeness only, since Eugene had left it open—and Luella peered in.

"Are you boys planning on going to school—" her words cut short when it connected that they were under the desk. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Didn't you feel it?" Eugene gasped, crawling out and jumping up to her. "It was an earthquake!" He threw his arm out to show the room. "Look at the mess it left!"

Oliver moved from his position of safety a lot slower. It took a moment to realize his hands were trembling. His bed had moved away from its normal position against the wall. The dresser and desk had shifted, too. His paperwork and writing utensils had spilled onto the floor, and the chair had fallen on its side. The stack of playing cards had fallen of his dresser and scattered all over.

Luella told Eugene she believed him, of course. Mainly because she knew Oliver wouldn't mess up his room for a prank. But no, she had not felt it.

She was suddenly too close to Oliver. Her concern overwhelmed his senses as she put her hand to his forehead as she tilted his head up to look directly into his eyes.

"You have a fever," she said.

"That's what I told him," Eugene said.

"I can't go to the doctor," Oliver said. He disliked the pleading tone that had crept into his voice. "I—"

His excuses stalled as his knees buckled. Eugene caught him from behind and slowed his descent to the floor. Oliver could feel his twin knocking on their inner door, panic rising. Was it his panic? Or Eugene's?

Oliver could hear Luella clattering down the stairs, shouting for Martin as she ran to the phone. No, he didn't know if she was going directly to the phone. He was just assuming that would be what she would do in this situation.

Right?

"Noll, Noll," Eugene said, his voice slightly higher than normal. "Don't…don't fall asleep, all right?"


	5. Chapter 5

_"So you inherited all the skills, Eugene?" the man asked._

_"I don't know. I can just talk to spirits," Eugene said with a slight shrug to his shoulders._

_"But what can your brother do?"_

_Eugene hesitated._

_"Where is your twin, anyway?" the man continued. _

_"He's home sick."_

_"He's sickly, your brother?"_

_"I wouldn't put a label like that on him," Eugene said. _

Oliver flinched his fingers away from the book he had been about to pick up. Did everything he touched have to pull him into a memory? It wasn't even Eugene's book—it was his!

He rubbed his temple as the memory replayed and clarified in his head. The location looked like one of the offices of the SPR. The man wasn't familiar—which was a blessing. Oliver didn't need to know his immediate co-workers were talking behind his back.

Though they were, he was sure it of it.

Talking about the boy who had wormed his way into Sir Dorey's good graces and clearly found something more interesting to occupy his time with. Why else would he just up and disappear like that?

He grabbed the book—Eugene shouldn't take his things if he wasn't going to give them back in a timely manner—and stalked back to his room, falling onto the bed. The short walk had worn him out. Again.

He used to be able to decide if he wanted to view a memory. Only the strongest ones would just pull him under without warning. Memories that held real pain, not simple day-to-day occurrences.

Oliver had spoken to Sir Dorey on the phone a few times. Sir Dorey told him to take his time. Heal whatever it was ailing him.

Yes, that was a good question. Oliver was becoming overly familiar with the hospital, and the doctors didn't seem to know what to look for. Martin was looking into different angles at this point. Maybe it was something in their own field they were overlooking? Did it have to do with Oliver's PK? His psychometry? What specialists could they bring in?

Eugene had kindly suggested finding an exorcist.

The phone next to his bed rang. Martin had installed one in his room when Oliver's health had deteriorated so he could still stay in contact with not just Sir Dorey, but his teachers at school as he attempted to maintain the lesson plans. Schoolwork was the least of his worries—it even distracted him when he was trapped on the bed.

Oliver sat up with a small sigh and picked up the phone.

"Oliver Davis speaking."

The voice on the other side was professional. Official. They had gotten his name from the SPR, that he occasionally does psychometric readings? It was an emergency. A missing child. It was a special request by the guardians if some personal items could be read? They were afraid they were running out of time.

Oliver paused. He couldn't. Martin had suggested not doing anything with his abilities until they started researching if they were linked to his bouts of weakness.

A voice rose to the back of his mind, an encounter with another psychic he had forgotten.

_"You will know when to use your gift to help them, no matter the cost to yourself, because that is who you are." _

Martin wasn't home.

"Yes," Oliver said into the phone. "If you can do a house call."

Oliver managed to take a shower and drag a comb through his hair. He riffled through Eugene's clothes, finding something presentable and relatively memory-free.

He walked slowly down the stairs, fingers clenching the handrail.

Luella jumped out of her skin when he showed up in the kitchen's door frame. She chided him that all he needed to do was call if he needed something.

He sat down at the kitchen table. He felt a little stronger. Maybe it was the resolve with what he was planning on doing. Besides, this was the best research, right? Nothing would be found in books. He just needed to test it.

She listened closely and didn't take to his plans well.

The doorbell rang and with one last worried look at Oliver, Luella went to answer the door.

She returned with two policemen and an elderly couple. They sat down at the table, tense pleasantries exchanged. Oliver could feel they were a little concerned that he was just a boy. He looked barely older than the child they were looking for.

The guardians were the child's grandparents. Oliver told them he didn't need to know more. It was best to not be clouded by information.

They set out simple items: a worn stuffed bear with a missing eye. A pair of small knit gloves that looked handmade. A delicate silver locket.

One policeman watched. The other judged.

Oliver ran his fingers over the items. What he had considered a curse earlier was becoming useful, which normal memories of the child flooded his mind.

_A little girl, about seven, set down her bear on the bed, and placed the locket around its neck. She pulled on her gloves, whispering to the stuffed companion how he should look over her locket for the day. She was going out exploring, and didn_ _'t want to lose it. It had pictures of her mother in it, after all. It was too precious to get wet in the gully. Then she paused. These gloves were made by her grandmother, she couldn't get them dirty either. She pulled them off and set them by the bear._

Oliver's breath hitched.

No, he needed more.

_The gully was so much deeper than she expected. The rains had made it slippery, and she lost her footing, all the way to the bottom. Her ankle hurt. She was so far away. She had walked for so long! Someone was on the top of the ridge, but she couldn_ _'t call out—what if they were bad people? She couldn't talk to strangers._

Oliver saw her location as it truly was, not as her imagination did—she hadn't gone very far at all. That was her house on the hill.

Oliver looked up at the policeman who was judging him, and knew that this was being assumed as a kidnapping by the girl's estranged father—the police had not even examined the gully besides a quick up and down on the banks. And the grandparents had trusted the police, since they could not scale the gully themselves.

As Oliver watched the policeman's face get tighter, he realized he had been speaking out loud, like some trance medium. He hadn't intended to lose control like that.

The grandfather begged Luella to use her phone—as if she would refuse—and the moment he had someone on the line started giving directions to sweep the gully. The grandmother took Oliver's hand and thanked him profusely. He could feel her gratitude sinking into his skin. He needed the warmth. He felt cold.

Oliver stayed at the kitchen table after visitors left. Luella had wrapped a blanket around him and he had his hands wrapped around a too-hot teacup. She was now pretending to wash dishes.

When the phone rang, she dove for it. Oliver stood up, and she handed him the receiver which was dripping with dishwater.

It was the policeman who had been watching with interest. They had found the girl. She had a sprained ankle, and was dehydrated and hungry. But okay. She would be okay. Thank you. He had just known Oliver was one of the real ones.

Oliver handed Luella back the phone, and sat down at the table before he fell down. He didn't think he'd be able to make it up the stairs. But it had been the right thing to do.

And he was one of the few people who could do it.

...

(Thank you for reading! Need more? Be sure to check out my fic "Fix Me".)


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